


all my luck could change

by cashewdani



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Future Fic, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashewdani/pseuds/cashewdani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“So where’s he taking you?  A private island?  The moon?”</i>  Or Harry takes Nick on holiday to see if they can make this work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all my luck could change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wardo_wedidit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/gifts).



> Un'beta'ed work of fiction.

LA’s sky is pink through Nick’s closed eyelids. Pink like his skin probably is. He’s just started thinking his shoulder’s itchy when there’s suddenly a cool ring of condensation, there. In that exact spot. A chilly circle taking away the tickle before he can even lift his heavy limbs. Manage to complain.

Harry was drinking an iced coffee and it’s now against Nick’s arm, and there’s a moment where Nick realizes he wants this maybe a little too much.

Not the afternoon almost nap or a dribble of water down his collarbone or the feel of the grass where he should have used more suncream.

_You could come home_ , Nick thinks, even though technically they’re there already, where Harry lives now that he’s no longer on a tour bus. _You could come home._

Harry pulls the cup away, the ice rattling against the plastic, and it used to be easier, Nick remembers. 

Maybe incorrectly. 

Maybe it only feels easier because it’s passed. Maybe it was always just as hard as this.

Soon Harry’s going to ask about dinner, or a mobile will ring, and this moment will drift like all the others. Things will go on. That’s the way of things.

But right now there’s a drying patch of moisture against his skin and Oasis lyrics in his head.

He starts humming “Wonderwall”. Feels like a right fucking idiot.

And then Harry joins in and it’s nicer than something like humming an old song in the grass has the right to feel.

\---

Nick left his shampoo.

It’s right there on the marble ledge of the guest shower, and Harry stares at it for awhile before shooting off a text to Nick on the subject.

Nick never showered in here, as far as Harry knows. Unless it was after the drive home from Nobu, when things went a little bit shit. Because Harry had gone to make a call when they’d gotten back and he didn’t see Nick until later when he’d wandered into the bedroom so Pig could say hello via Facetime.

And then everything was fine again, like Glynne and Jeff trying to discretely fight during dinner never happened, so it didn’t encourage Harry to stupidly say to Nick that maybe he had the right idea about always being single. Which in turn meant Nick hadn’t gotten quiet, staring at the ocean, dark and vast outside the car, and Harry hadn’t had to get quiet too. 

Which he had had to do because he hadn’t meant it like...that. Like however Nick took it that he had quit toying with Harry’s satellite radio and mocking how everything Harry had in at his wasn’t really food.

Harry knows he’s not supposed to know that maybe Nick told Aimee he’s tired of the bells of loneliness, and only coming home to a dog. That admitting it out loud would be a betrayal of his friendship with her and would make Nick feel terrible and exposed. But he does know. And he thinks about it more than is probably healthy.

Enough that he could have missed Nick showering that night.

He tries to remember if Nick’s hair was wet while he gave commentary to Pig about everything in the bedroom she would have already destroyed if she’d come with. If for the one time that week, Nick smelled like just himself and not himself with a mask of Harry on top of it. 

But the coffee the next morning and the blow jobs and the lack of conversation turning heavy stands out much more clearly. The sound of Nick’s breath in the room with him. How Harry might have been thinking nothing felt calmer than this, but maybe was just falling asleep.

Nick still hasn’t texted him back, but Harry leaves the bottle where he found it. Because Nick will be back.

Nick doesn’t really like LA, but always comes back.

And Harry knows what that really means.

\---

It had been lovely in London while Nick was across the pond. Gillian sent screenshots of the weather each morning with requests that he stay away forever, the weather is so perfect, it would take her ages to realize he was gone, but it’s drizzled every day he’s been back.

And then it stops raining.

Nick goes to work. He watches telly with Collette, and Daisy has time for a manicure on a Thursday afternoon, and he gets maybe too drunk with Matt and Ian at the pub they used to stop in at after work a lot that one summer they did a killer drink with basil and watermelon that Nick was never able to recreate at home. There’s an interview to be done with Victoria Beckham, Douglas challenges him to a bet that ends in him having to attend not one, but two, cricket matches, and Fiona somehow convinces him to sign up for an online dating site that he lasts for four days on.

Concerts and DJ sets and restaurant openings clutter his calendar, but he always says yes.

Sometimes Harry calls him and sometimes he doesn’t.

Nick’s comfortable with it, how his life follows these patterns. Feels lived in.

Comfortable with eating tea standing up in his kitchen while Annie’s on the radio. Taking Pig out and letting her run until she’s dirty and exhausted and practically begging to be hoisted home. Talking to his mother on Sundays while his father yells from the background.

It’s routine.

Especially when it starts to rain again.

\---

Harry sees Nick’s post on Twitter, _Day 4 no sunlight. Even the vampires are over it._ while he’s waiting for his turn to tee off. He takes a picture of the course, everything green and blue and bathed in California sun, but Jeff tells him to stop dicking around before he sends it off.

When he finds it in his camera roll later, he just deletes it even though he’s not sure what the weather’s doing back in London.

\---

“What do you think I should do for the winter holiday, nation? Please text us at eight double one double nine with your suggestions because I am really at a loss. Fifi, where was it that you said I should go?”

“Anywhere that will mean I don’t have to hear you complaining about trying to get into bathing suit shape in the middle of January.”

“So, not Seychelles, then? Heard Seychelles is lovely.”

Fiona ribs him. “Could you even find Seychelles on a map?”

“Well, I can read, can’t I? It’s near Africa, I’m pretty sure.”

“Africa’s huge!” Nick loves how all of her facial features stretch out on the u of the word.

“Yeah, but like, not on a map. Regardless, since Fifi is clearly implying I should be spending more time at the gym and studying geography, this is on you, listeners. Hey, maybe this should be a new feature, having the country send me away on holiday. I’d report back on my findings for everyone.”

“I can hear your reviews now: ‘Too much sun, spent most of it hungover, saw something old that I didn’t learn the historical significance of’.”

“I’m a really good traveler, Fiona. We should take a trip, you’ll see.”

“I’ve taken plenty of trips with you.”

He grins. “And they were all memorable and fantastic, yes, we know. Alright, coming up, on the way, we have the new track from David Guetta, which I am just loving. I heard it on the ride home yesterday and I’m sure my driver thought I was mental, but it is a tune! But first, here’s Tina Daheley with Newsbeat.”

“Your phone was buzzing all through that segment,” Fiona says, handing him over his mobile.

When Nick flicks open his lock screen, he can see they were all from Harry and smiles in spite of himself until he starts reading the messages. 

_Come back to LA._

_I just really want you to like it like I like it._

_I won’t make you eat any more seaweed._

“You know I can keep track of my own phone, Fiona. I’ve matured a lot since we started.”

“I can tell from your facial expression that you definitely can’t. Harry?” she asks and Nick nods.

“He wants me to come back to Los Angeles.”

“Do you want to go back to Los Angeles?” Fiona questions, while he fires off _I think it’s your turn to travel, mate_.

Nick knows that he likes living out of one another’s pockets again when he’s there, when it feels effortless and like old times with just the scenery being different. But it’s never been more than a few days and it’s always such a nightmare to adjust to life without Harry just right there after the fact. And that’s the way it has to be. There’s not an alternative.

Because Nick has his dream job here. And a dog he adores and his family and friends, and basically, everything but Harry. His life is here in London, and it’s been here since he left university and decided he was really going to do it. 

And he has. 

He’s made it, all the stuff he wanted when he lying in his bedroom in Oldham, it’s part of his timeline now and so it’s beyond stupid to think about giving it up for a barely grown popstar who was never part of the plan.

Which is why he says, “Not particularly.”

She looks at him a little too meaningfully and Nick wonders for a second if he ever was to actually date someone what his friends would do with all their well meaning glances. Of course, they’d probably just apply them then to how much of a trainwreck Nick would be at dating another person.

_But you’re the one on holiday!_ Harry finally replies, and Nick can’t help but snort a little. Like Nick would describe a holiday as living with Harry for just long enough that he starts to forget all the reasons it’s not going to work. _You seemed to have fun last time._

And Nick did. Because it’s easy to have fun when he’s with Harry. Nick never has fun with anyone else like he has fun with Harry, which Gillian has told him more than once is exactly how most people would describe being in love, but what does Gillian know? Gillian’s as single as he is. Plus there’s all the stuff that comes along with the fun that’s the exact opposite. The attention and the death threats and the way it feels to get on the plane home. To have to face yet again that Harry is just for weekends and holidays and a laugh.

_Don’t sulk, popstar. You’re a lovely host._

_That you don’t want to be hosted by._

Nick can hear Fiona clearing her throat because Tina is finishing talking about an embezzlement scandal that rocked a local parish over the weekend, which is the last story of the news today.

_Even you can’t always get your way. Sounds like you’re going to have to meet me halfway on this at least. Fiona’s gesturing for my mobile, talk soon!_ he manages to send before she literally takes it from him and turns his mic back on.

“Thank you, Tina. Very sad story, that. So, we should talk again a little bit more about my travel plans. Lighten the mood. One of our listeners has suggested Los Angeles, but I don’t know what he’s on about. LA’s so last season. Or, I guess technically not. They don’t really have seasons there, do they? Don’t know how they handle knowing how to dress every day. Sounds proper terrible.”

He can picture it, somewhere in the dark of California, Harry listening and maybe even smiling about the thing they fight about with more regularity than seems necessary. Daisy says it’s sweet, like married pensioners, arguing about the weather. But she’s wrong. There’s nothing endearing at all about two people who can’t agree on something as simple as the state of the sky outside.

\---

Harry should go to bed, he has Owen coming to do yoga at the house in the morning, and after being hungover at their last session, he’d like to make a better impression, but he listens to the rest of Nick’s show. There’s something soothing sometimes about hearing the kinds of accents that used to be commonplace. And Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t occasionally miss fields and rain and a warm jacket potato.

But he has beaches and sunshine and frozen youghurt and he’s happy.

He still looks up the distance from his door to Nick’s, down to the very last fraction of a kilometer, as an old track of James Bay’s plays. Just to know.

\---

When Nick gets home, after an impromptu sit down with Big Boss Ben and a meeting that MTV just insisted happen today, even though nothing was decided, Michael’s got Pig in the bath. “Thanks for swinging by last minute to help out with the diva.”

“No problem, mate. Although, I’ve never seen a diva like to get this filthy. She absolutely tore up the garden chasing a bird, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright. Just dirt.” Nick got rid of his carpets years ago, when it became clear that Pig was never going to fully outgrow being a puppy. Probably because Nick couldn’t chastise her as much as she actually required to learn anything.

“Meetings went aright?”

“Yeah, cheers, they did. Just going over some numbers. Things are still good. Not kicking me off the main show yet.”

“But soon though?” Michael teases, pouring a cupful of water over Pig’s head. She tries to bite at the liquid like the adorable weirdo Nick doesn’t know how he lived without. 

“Yeah, soon we’ll both just be around all day to hang out with dogs.”

Michael smiles, his teeth so white against the ink of the tattoos. Maybe that’s the secret. “Sounds like the life. Oh, and something came in the post. From America. Looked proper official. I left it on the table with the rest.”

“You want me to finish up here?” Nick asks, even though he’d really prefer not getting muddy pup all over this particular jumper. 

“Nah, we’re good, Pig and myself. Have worked out a really good system.”

Nick suggests, “I’ll go put the kettle on then,” heading for the kitchen.

There’s the usual catalogues he’ll bin immediately, a bill that he can’t seem to figure out how to get sent electronically like all the rest of them, and yep, a large envelope with no return address, all in red, white and blue with an eagle’s face on it. America and their patriotism.

He slits open the cardboard while the water on the range begins to heat up and inside is only a few slips of folded paper.

As he undoes them, he sees Harry’s handwriting on the top sheet. _I did the maths, and it’s not exactly half way, but, a gesture, I guess._

The next paper is a plane ticket to New York, followed by one for the return. The one after that is the address Nick is supposed to give to the driver when he lands.

\---

“This is too much,” Nick tells him and Harry can’t help laughing.

“You said you didn’t want to go back to LA.”

Harry can hear the paper rustling in the background, like Nick is flipping through the contents of the envelope again. “I’m happy you remember that, but do you also remember me never mentioning deciding on a holiday destination?”

“Don’t use the tickets if you don’t want to.” He stretches out in bed and something in his back cracks deliciously. “But they’re non-refundable.”

“The poor popstar possibly having to eat the cost of a plane ticket.”

He scratches idly at his stomach. “Two plane tickets, Grim! Trans-Atlantic at that. I’d have wasted at least...”

“What? The equivalent of five seconds of performing for you?”

“Do you really not want to do it?” Harry feels for the first time like he might have actually overstepped.

Nick, sighs, saying, “Well, you made the gesture,” and Harry once again couldn’t keep his laughter in if he tried.

“It’s going to be fucking smashing, I promise it.”

“Just bring a coat. Because Alexa is constantly talking about how cold on the east coast is different than cold in London and I’m not letting you knick mine.”

“But what if the internet blames you for my death of consumption when you don’t share? I don’t own any good coats any more.”

“Then buy a coat then! Oh God, you’re definitely going to have the plague when I’m there. You’ve sealed the fate.”

“Heeeeey,” he drags out and Nick snorts on the other end of the line. “I’ve been really healthy lately.”

“Lately. What’s that? A week without a sniffle?”

“Doesn’t really matter, you’d let me get you sick,” Harry teases. “If I happened to be poorly. Which I won’t be.” 

“Oh, just what I need, ill after holiday. I can see the headlines now. Old Grimmy never learns.”

“You’re not old. And that’s a terrible headline.”

“Alright, I’m the face, not the writer. Which, don’t you have some Grammy artist to meet with this morning? Have to write the summer single way in advance I’m told.”

Harry glances at the clock on his nightstand, a gift from his mother because she said it was proper to have a clock, his phone can’t be enough. “I’ve got time.”

“I don’t know the last time I’ve heard you say that,” Nick says, and Harry tries to ignore the way it makes his stomach go slightly wibbly.

“So you’ll come? After Christmas?”

“Yes, Harold, after Christmas, I will come to New York.”

He smiles, smug. “Then I’ll get a coat.”

“And loads of vitamin C,” Nick tells him, his voice sounding like a mum.

Harry assures, “Tons of oranges,” grinning.

“Limes too. Lemons, all of it. Some weird fruit they only let real big celebrities in Hollywood put into their almond milk and kale smoothies.”

“Kale actually has loads of vitamin C.” Part of Harry wants to stay in bed all day, listing the nutritional value of things.

“I notice you’re not denying this A-list exclusive drink ingredient.”

“I love you, Nick,” Harry says, honestly, because it’s early enough to be honest in LA. And because the same doesn’t apply to London is just part of how life is.

Nick sighs like Harry is adorable and exasperating all at once, and he loves that too. “Alright, enough of that now.”

“I’ll pack the quimosa. That’s the name of the exclusive vegetable by the way. Because it’s a vegetable. Not a fruit.”

“Fucking Styles.” Nick laughs and now he knows it’s just a few more weeks before Harry can kiss him.

\---

Aimee says, “Harry texted that I should call you,” in lieu of a greeting.

“Well that was intrusive of him.”

“I can’t tell if this is because he fucked up or did something great from that statement.”

“Maybe both?”

Nick has been diligently avoiding thinking about his own phone call with Harry, making Michael stay for tea, listening to the new tracks Vic sent him home with. He was just considering getting out bed because he hasn’t heard Pig in awhile and so she is probably destroying something somewhere else in the flat, when his mobile rang.

“Well?”

He wants to tell Aimee because she always has good advice and a joke and a way to make even the worst stuff feel okay for a moment. But telling Aimee will mean that it’s real. That Harry actually offered and Nick actually accepted. And she loves them, both of them, and will always tell Nick it’s his life and he’s of course allowed to do whatever he likes, but she’s not going to be thrilled.

Not that Nick blames her. She’s been around to pick up the pieces for so many years now.

“He bought me a vacation,” he starts, still not owning up to the fact that he’s taken him up on it. “Like, who does that?”

“Harry Styles does that,” she states plainly.

“I know but...”

“It’s a lot. He’s always been a lot and he will always be a lot.”

And Nick is not sure he can handle that. “I know.”

“So have you accepted? Because I notice you haven’t cleared that up.”

Nick tugs at his hair. “I might have.”

He’s ready for the mild chastising, the reminder of all the times that he’s said he’s a grownup, he’s not doing this any more, but she simply asks, “So where’s he taking you? A private island? The moon?”

And Nick is grateful.

“We’re going to...” he picks up the paper again, from where he’s brought it in from the kitchen. “Montauk. Whatever that is.”

“Oh my God, Grim, that’s the Hamptons!”

And then she starts laughing, apparently realizing what Nick himself just has. “Are you fucking serious? You’re telling me that he’s taking me on the ocean in the middle of winter?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t Google it immediately. But you’ll have fun. You’ll probably freeze to death, but before that, it’ll be a good time.”

“Do you think? Not the freezing to death part. The other one.”

“You’ll come home with a lot of stories.” She’s doing that thing where she’s not saying what they both know she’s thinking. And Nick desperately needs her to.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“What do you want me to say, Grim? There’s nothing left at this point for me to say.”

He sighs, and she’s right, and he feels badly that he brings all these other people along with him while he repeats the same behaviors over and over again.

Nick asks, “How is my godchild?” to change the subject. Because Aimee has gotten married and become a mum, and the things she worries about now: can she go to a primary school interview with blue hair or what’s she going to tell her kid about drugs, are definitely not the same.

“Ian’s got her in the bath.”

“And no pictures for me?” He fakes horror, even though there is something really incredibly great about watching this little person grow as he flips through his albums on his phone.

“She hasn’t changed from yesterday.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Aimee lets the conversation meander until it’s time to go through the bedtime ritual that she and Ian have been trying to get under an hour for the past three months.

Nick wonders what it’s like to have a routine for falling asleep that includes someone else besides himself.

\---

Harry’s eating a late lunch, some quinoa and pineapple thing he picked up on a whim at the store, when his mobile buzzes on the table next to him.

_He told me_ , he can see Aimee typed, with the three little dots already blinking underneath the message. He waits, chewing. _Don’t fuck this up._

Harry nods once before putting his fork back into the bowl. _Noted_ , is all he texts back because you don’t fight with Aimee.

Especially when she’s right.

\---

“Where’d you even find this place?” are the first words out of Nick’s mouth after eight hours in the air and then three hours in a car. Because there’s this beautiful house that’s all wood and windows and white accents. It’s massive seeming, he has no idea how many bedrooms are tucked inside of it, and there’s a pool, covered obviously now that it’s January, that he can just see peeking out around the side of the building. There’s nothing else, no houses close enough to see, but Nick can hear the ocean like he’s already standing on the beach. “I know you’re rich, but this seems obscene.”

He has the strap of one of his bags slipping off his shoulder, and even though it’s gray and starting to snow and he’s exhausted, Nick is so happy he’s here.

Harry’s just standing there on one of the balconies, because there are multiple, the flurries getting caught in his hair. “It’s the off season. And it’s a friend’s of a friend’s. They’re thinking of selling.”

“Oh God, don’t even tell me you can afford something like this. My heart couldn’t bear it,” Nick yells into the wind, and he thinks about how long it’s been since he’s seen Harry and now he’s just right there. This beautiful, ridiculous, wealthy child that Nick’s heart also can’t endure.

“Wait right there, I’m coming down!”

Nick stands where he is because Harry told him to. And because he still can’t believe this is real and just needs a moment. And maybe one more after that.

His hands are cold but Harry is rushing through this fucking mansion to get to him and Nick can take it.

\---

Harry feels like he drank six shots of espresso as he tries to show Nick everything in the house. He’s bouncing around everywhere, slipping in his socks on the floor and Nick looks so tired but appreciative in equal measure. “

And here’s the ladder in the bathroom!” Harry says, gesturing at it in all its random glory.

“Well, that’s reasonable. Don’t know why I don’t have one of those at home.”

“It’s so sick, it goes up to this loft space. I just sat up there doing yoga yesterday.”

“Maybe I’ll join you tomorrow.” He leans to gaze up at where the ladder leads through the ceiling. “How much more of this place is there to see? I can’t believe this is still one house.”

“You have to see our room. We’ll stop there, I promise.” Harry had gone back and forth on it, whether he should keep up the facade that Nick had his own room that he’d never end up using, but as soon as Nick stepped out of that car in the snow, Harry had decided against it.

Nick sighs, gratefully, and leans in to kiss Harry’s mouth.

It’s easy, to let Nick kiss him, and it feels right in this light yellow bathroom with the snow silent outside.

Harry kisses him back. Equally grateful.

\---

“I swore to myself I wouldn’t just fuck someone because they took me somewhere fancy,” Nick says with his eyes closed and head sunk into the high end pillows.

“Anymore or...” Harry teases, and Nick pokes at his side blind.

“Shut up. I still haven’t decided if I will or not.” He’s so tired. Tired everywhere but so desperately wants to stay awake.

Harry lowers his mouth near Nick’s ear and he can feel the shift of the mattress. “I think you have.”

“I’m knackered,” he whines, the word dragging out in the room.

“Are you?” Harry’s mouth latches against his throat, and Nick feels the suction immediately.

“Stop that. I’ve been traveling.” Nick tries half-heartedly to swat at him, but Harry’s a warm weight atop him and it’s basically useless.

Harry quits just long enough to say, “I don’t care,” before resuming. Nick’s going to have a mark.

“You’ll have to do most of the work.” He can feel the grin spread out across his skin. “You know, if I decide we should.”

Harry nips at him and Nick laughs and pets his hair and knows it’s only a matter of time before he says yes.

He always says yes to Harry.

\---

Harry’s laying on his back, looking at the skylight where he can’t see anything through the snow.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t make it with the weather,” he says, even though Nick is asleep beside him. “I’m happy you did.”

He listens to Nick breathing and Harry doesn’t know how he feels so calm and so anxious at the same time.

“I can’t fuck this up,” and it has nothing to do with the promise to Aimee and everything to do with how much Harry couldn’t live with it if he did.

“We’ll fuck again in the morning,” Nick mutters, pressing his face further into the pillow and Harry tries so hard not to laugh.

\---

He jolts awake with a feeling like he’s late for work, but it’s still dark, and 2 am, and the bed Harry’s gotten for them in the Hamptons, so he wills his pulse to slow down.

It’s so eerily quiet out here, as he tries to listen for Pig’s nails on the floor or the sounds of cars outside. But there’s nothing. Not even the sound of heat coming up or the weather outside.

Nick eases himself out of bed, careful not to disturb Harry, but a little sad that he doesn’t stir at all as Nick vacates his spot.

He tiptoes over to the window that’s taller than he is and the world is just an expanse of white. The trees are practically bending under the weight from the snow and everything is so still he’s honestly afraid that if he breathes too much he’s somehow going to disturb it. Nick stands there, his fingers leaving prints on the glass and not so much caring, not entirely sure how long he’s been staring at an unchanging landscape, when suddenly there’s a deer. Just right there on what Nick guesses is the front lawn.

And there’s a moment before it bolts where Nick can swear it’s looking right at him in the black of the bedroom. That it knows he’s here.

But then it’s gone, sprinting off into the dark beyond the reach of the exterior lights and Nick finds himself taking a step back.

It feels like something. Like there was a reason he was awake and at that window and that it snowed and all of it. Like all of it means something.

Or it was just a deer out in the winter trying to find somewhere that wasn’t frozen solid.

He climbs back into bed and this time Harry moves towards him. Harry’s always too warm but Nick let’s himself be entangled. Likes it because it’s familiar how much he hates it.

Falls back asleep and doesn’t dream of deer or snow or anything really.

\---

“I think I saw a deer last night,” Nick tells him while pouring his second cup of coffee. “Just out there on the property.”

Harry sips at the already too cold dregs at the bottom of his own mug. “You were also saying you were going to fuck me this morning in your sleep.”

“So very eventful evening all around for me.”

“Do you think it’s still out there?” Harry asks, knowing that by doing so he’s chickening out from having the conversation he should have had last night. Or a year ago.

“No, I let it into the butler’s pantry. But you probably won’t stumble upon it for ages in this place.”

Harry taps one of his rings against the mug, feeling brave and spineless at the same time. “We should go look for it.”

“What, in the snow?” Nick sounds so incredulous that it makes Harry want to see just how much he can encourage him to do.

“I did bring the coat, as suggested. And you haven’t even seen the ocean yet.”

“I don’t think deer are indigenous to beaches.”

“No, come on. Let’s do this. Bit of adventure.”

Nick sulks, “I just poured this!” but Harry’s whisking the mug out of his hand and putting it down on the counter by the sink.

“You can pour another later. Get your boots.”

“I thought this was supposed to be _my_ holiday,” he says, but he goes to leave the kitchen. “Am I supposed to turn left or right at the armoire to get to the master suite?”

“Hurry, there’s a deer out there who has had like a nine hour head start on us!”

Nick scowls in that way that Harry knows means something else.

\---

It’s cold, so fucking cold, but Nick keeps running. Or running as much as one can under these conditions.

He can hear Harry ahead of him laughing, not struggling at all through the drifts of snow and sand, because he’s so young and fit and always encouraging Nick to do the kind of stuff he swore he wouldn’t.

The waves are crashing against the shore, loud and powerful, and Nick feels mental and unreal as he watches Harry’s hood slip off again, his hair as wild underneath as Nick’s heartbeat.

And then he turns, his cheeks bright pink and whatever he’s saying being almost completely swallowed up by the wind.

“What?” Nick yells in return, his eyes watering and face numb, but Harry just smiles and sprints back.

Harry takes his hand, and it’s a nothing thing, they’re alone on the beach after a blizzard, but Nick has to breathe deep, the cold air tightening up his lungs, and yeah, that’s exactly what it is. The cold.

The bottoms of their jeans are soaked through and Nick’s boots feel like they’re made out of concrete and he finds himself stumbling more and more into Harry with every step.

It’s not long before they’re both tumbling down, the snow biting as it slips underneath his collar and into his pair of gloves that weren’t designed for this. Harry’s laughing hysterically beside him, and Nick wishes there weren’t so many clothes and things he wasn’t saying between them.

He goes to get up, to try anyway, but Harry pulls him back in, the touch on the back of Nick’s neck damp and woolen.

Nick looks into Harry’s face, really looks, in those few moments that stretch on longer than it feels that they should. 

And Nick faces in that time that he loves Harry, that he would do shit like this forever if it makes Harry look the way he looks right now. 

That he’s a coward.

He lets Harry kiss him until Harry’s up again, racing further down the shoreline, pleading that Nick follow him.

Nick does. He has no other choice.

\---

Harry didn’t feel cold until they were back in the house and dropping all their clothes in the front hallway.

He keeps shaking, all of his skin pulled taut and goose pimpled, as he struggles with the buttons on his flies. Harry sniffs, his nose running in the heat, as his grip fails again to get the button successfully through the hole. But then Nick’s reaching out, his fingers much more deft than Harry’s own. He gets them undone easily, and uses the extra room to slip his hands in, skimming the bones of Harry’s hips. Grasping at the curve of his ass.

Nick’s hands are somehow hot and cold and Harry doesn’t know if he’ll ever be unaware of temperature again. “We should shower maybe,” Nick suggests, pulling Harry closer with the grip still in his pants. “Think that might be nice,”

Harry nods, focussed more on his dick filling out than much of the context of what Nick’s saying.

“Which of the nine bathrooms would you like to use?” Nick nibbles at Harry’s earlobe as he continues to draw him closer. “I don’t want any of them to feel excluded.”

Harry answers, “The closest,” and he loves the way that Nick’s laugh feels against him always.

Nick finally, finally presses the curve of his own burgeoning erection against Harry’s and there’s a little bit of a hitch then to his laughter. “You’re such a teenager still.”

“My mother says we both turn each other into teenagers. She still hasn’t figured out how we managed to scorch the ottoman in the sitting room.”

“Don’t talk about your mother right now. Or that incident with the sparklers.”

“I still think it looked cool.”

“Of course you did. You and your aesthetics of nearly nude celebrating.”

“All my celebrating is nearly nude. If not fully.”

Nick bites down at the juncture of Harry’s shoulder and his grip tenses into Harry’s flesh. “Let’s celebrate then,” he says when his jaw releases.

The full bath off the laundry room is small by this house’s standards, but still fills surprisingly quickly with steam. Harry leans back against the Jack and Jill sinks, as Nick struggles to pull down the heavy denim of his jeans. They’re stuck at Harry’s knees when Nick seems to give up on the tangle and just press his mouth against where Harry’s straining in his pants.

Nick’s hair is all limp and lumps from the hats and humidity and Harry keeps touching it, trying to urge him further. To find out if Nick’s mouth can be hotter than this room.

“Come on. Come on,” he urges, tensing the fingers of his left hand on the edge of the marble, and Nick obliges. Pulls down the elastic waistband with his teeth in a way that Harry always appreciates.

Nick sucks dick like he loves it as much as dogs and accessories and doing the radio. Like it was one of the things he was put on this earth to do. And Harry wonders if it’s like that for everyone Nick’s gone down on, or if anyone else on the receiving end has felt like him right now. Like he’s so lucky to feel a master at work.

There’s a moment before he comes where Harry thinks about this morning and remembers the night of driving on the Pacific, Nick’s shampoo in the bathroom, the reason he was so desperate for Nick to spend this time with him.

But then Nick makes a sound like blissful agony and Harry’s mind goes blank.

\---

Nick is blissed out and tired and it’s dusk outside already even though he’s not sure where the afternoon went.

Harry built a fire with a lot of lighter fluid and a surprising minimum of cursing and they’re sprawled out on the floor in front of it. Harry’s in just a button up shirt, one button done somewhere down near his navel, and one of the endless supply of black pants he keeps pulling from his suitcase. He’d tried to pull his hair back with a thermal shirt wrapped around his head, a safety precaution he’d said, but it’s all come loose like some kind of obscene painting kids who took Art History A-levels would know the symbolism of.

Nick’s job had been going through the old collection of records which seemed out of place beside the brand new turntable tucked into the hutch of entertainment options. But he loves when records are old, when their sleeves have worn down corners and soft as cotton edges.

Harry plays with the sleeve of Nick’s jumper, his head cradled in Nick’s lap, and he knows all the words to all these songs.

Nick finds himself singing along, terribly, because that is what he does, while Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young remind him, “With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard”. 

He feels like when this one finishes, they might just sit in this room, the only noise being the sound of the record continuing to spin, and Nick will remember it forever.

\---

They’ve played board games and put a large dent in the liquor cabinet and taken so many pictures that neither one of them have posted online.

Harry’s looking at them, this week’s worth of experiences, and wants to ask Nick to stay here forever. In this bubble where they’re the only people who exist.

He knows Nick has talked about getting tired of people, weary even at the notion of having only one person to entertain him and be the recipient of his own entertainment, but nothing about this trip has made Harry think he’s feeling that way.

Until this morning, as Nick slams around the kitchen, cupboards and cookware taking the brunt of his negativity.

“Those egg whites didn’t do anything to you,” Harry says, sipping from his breakfast smoothie and trying to diffuse whatever has set Nick off.

Nick answers, “And I’m not doing anything to them,” with bite, dropping the pan into the sink with a hiss.

“Do you want some coffee?” Harry attempts again, pushing back his chair under the guise of checking the pot, but really as an excuse to put his hand on Nick’s shoulder.

He doesn’t expect for Nick to rip himself back from the contact. “I’m fine.”

It’s a challenge to keep his voice even, but he manages. “I hate to break it to you, but I think you’re lying.”

“What the fuck are we doing, Harry?” Nick practically yells, and Harry’s happy the dish of eggs is still on the counter because he’s sure if Nick had been holding it, the meal and shards of china would be all over the floor. “I just...why am I here? Why are either of us here?”

“For a nice holiday,” is what he says, even though he knows there’s more beyond that.

“And then you go back to your end of the earth and I go back to mine? I can’t keep doing this, Hazza, like, I can’t,”

Nick’s face is red and Harry thinks he can see the slightest tremble in his hands. He stares at Nick’s bracelets instead because they’re not making him feel weak-willed.

“Say something!”

“What if I came back?” Harry practically whispers, feeling small and exposed saying the thing out loud that he’s pondered more and more over the years.

“Don’t do that. Don’t promise something you’re not going to do.” Nick can tell that Harry’s about to say something because he forcefully continues. “That you _shouldn’t_ do.”

“But why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you have your life in LA. You have a house and friends and your fucking job!”

“Oh, I forgot. No one works on music outside of Los Angeles. And it’s ancient times where communication takes weeks to get through if it makes it there at all.”

Nick scrubs through his hair, his oldest nervous tic that Harry’s seen more than he would like. “But why now?”

“Why not now? I thought you’d be happy!” Harry’s mad now. At Nick and the situation and at himself.

“If you really thought I’d be happy, you wouldn’t be mentioning it hours before I get in a car and leave!”

“I wanted to see...”

“What? If it was worth it? If I was worth it? I’m too old for this shit, Harry.”

“Fuck that, alright. You don’t get to have the monopoly on feeling old. I’m not sixteen any more.”

“And I was never sixteen with you.” The way he says it is mean, like it’s not just a statement but one he wants Harry to feel the same shitty way he feels about it.

“Alright, enough. You’re older than me, yes. That we can’t change. But I’m offering to change something. A huge something and you’re not even considering it!”

“Oh, I’ve considered it. I’ve considered it every time you’ve left and every time you’ve mentioned coming back. I’ve had fucking years to consider it.”

“Then let’s do it! I’m offering to you that we do this!”

“What about the press, hmm? What about that we’re both shit at relationships? It’s not just the distance.”

Harry feels it unraveling, here in the kitchen that still smells like all the comforts of breakfast. “Do you not want to do this? Because if you don’t, Nick, just say that. I’d rather know if that’s how you feel.”

“Whether I want to do it or not doesn’t mean any of that other stuff goes away! We’ve been alone in this house for six days, Harry, this is not the real world. This is some escape from all the rest of it. This isn’t real.”

“This is as real as it fucking gets for me,” Harry says, deadly serious.

“Would you come back if it wasn’t for me?”

Harry shakes his head, because he probably wouldn’t. His parents come to visit often enough and there’s work in London when and if he wants to take it up. “But isn’t that a good thing?”

“It’s a lot of pressure, frankly.”

“I want to come back for you. I’m willing to come back for you. I just want to know if you want that.”

“I...I need to take a walk.”

“Nick,” Harry pleads, reaching again for him, but he’s rebuffed in the same manner.

“I’ll be back. I just...I have to think.”

He leaves the eggs untouched, and Harry hears him tugging on boots and a coat and the door closing.

Then himself muttering, “Fuck.”

\---

Everything outside reminds him of Harry, but so did everything inside and pretty much everywhere he’s going to go there’s something that he can tie to him. That makes him want to text him and share the moment.

But what Harry is offering means he might just be there already. Right next to Nick.

He’s been accused of never letting himself be happy. Of always thinking of the next thing, what has to come after this success. And it’s paid off exceptionally well professionally, that drive and focus.

But he’ll be 40 before he knows it and maybe he should be focusing more on being present. On dealing with what’s happening right now and the potential of it.

It’s a new year and Nick is being offered everything he’s wanted and in that warm house back there is the person doing the offering that Nick has been in his own version of in love with for so fucking long.

He takes one last deep breath of this ocean air that tastes at the same time like winter and salt and runs back towards the drive.

“I’m an idiot,” he says as soon as he opens the door, gray snow already melting on the welcome mat. “If you want to come home, come home.”

\---

“Well good morning, Great Britain! I’m so happy to be back here with you in our beautiful country. Can’t wait to tell you all about my travels, but Fiona is nudging me that we first have to talk about the news that Harry Styles has put his LA manse on the market. Really, Fifi? That’s more important than our listeners being in the know about what I ate on the airplane?”

“Do you think he’s coming back here?” she asks, prodding with the question she already knows the answer to.

“Our own Breakfast show producer starting rumors. Maybe we’ll have to see if we can get him on the line. Get some answers.”

In his bedroom in Los Angeles, Harry stops taping together a box just to check, once more, that his phone’s ringer is on.

“Right now though, an oldie that might get me thrown out of my job. Here’s _Paramore_ ’s “I’m Still Into You”.”

Harry rolls his eyes and can’t wait to take the piss.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the prompts wardo_wedidit left were incredible and I tried so hard to do this justice. But mostly, sorry there was not more smut.


End file.
